The wind whipped my bow tie which was speckled with a now barely recognizable omelet design, as I stood on the edge of the castle wall. I turned around carefully and motioned for the Muffin Man to follow. Five minutes and one panic attack later the Muffin Man finally stood next to me on the wall looking down at Miss Muffett, who was sitting on a tuffett eating her curds and whey. He was doing this for her, after all. To impress Miss Muffett, I broke out my tap dancing skills, doing a little dance for her. The Muffin Man did a little jig in response. Not to be outdone, I brought out more advanced moves, my feet moving like lightning, and my arms circling above my head. Suddenly, the stone beneath me slipped, just an inch, but it was enough.
* * * * *
You might wonder why I was on the wall at all. The truth is I'm a horrible person. Most people would try to deny the allegation or make arguments to defend themselves, but not me. My meanness is part of me, without it I would not be myself. I probably would be some crazy chicken having delusions of the sky falling or stuck on a farm, about to be served up for dinner. My mean kept me an egg. I thrive here. My story began years and years ago when the Muffin Man and I were in first grade.
The sun beat down on us as we stood in line for a foursquare game during recess. The Muffin Boy was the king, Little Red was the queen, the Gingerbread Boy was the jack, and I was the toilet.
“Cherry bomb Humpty Dumpty!” the Muffin Boy yelled and threw the ball as far as he could.
I scrambled backwards as fast as my little legs would take me, my eyes on the ball the whole time. Ten, nine, eight, seven – because I wasn’t looking where I was going I didn’t see the small rock directly in my path. Six, five, four, three – my heel hit the rock with great force. I stumbled backwards a couple of steps, then gravity got the better of me and I hit the ground with a great crack. Still wobbling, I stood. Laughter greeted me as I walked back to the group. Little Red managed to inform me of the reason for their laughter in between bouts of giggles. When I had fallen, my shell had cracked from my rear to my rounded top. I wasn’t leaking, thankfully, but the black crack was prominent against the pure white of my shell. My eyes narrowed as they landed on the Muffin Boy. This was his fault. He would pay.
* * * * *
On the first day of fourth grade, all of us who were here last year were already seated. One seat sat empty, waiting for its occupant to arrive. The door bust open, bringing with it a gush of frigid air, and in strutted the most ostentatiously clad girl I had ever seen. Feathers of yellow and red, adorned in an unstylish mauve-colored hat. Her shirt was a grotesque orange with green polka dots and ruffles were lining the bottom. My eyes scanned down and were assaulted by the bright pink of her pants. Spiraling down the legs were red stripes that made her legs look like candy canes. Her shoes resembled that of elves, though the girl's were a light blue. Miss Muffy was her name; she was from a rich family a few towns over. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Muffin Boy's jaw nearly grazing the floor. He likes her, I thought to myself, Well, that won't do for him to be happy, that won't do at all. From that moment on, I made it my purpose in life to keep Miss Muffy and the Muffin Boy apart. I leaned over and gently tipped the Muffin Boy's water over. As it landed on his lap, he jumped up with a start. Hearing the commotion, all eyes turned to him and his wet pants. Giggling erupted all through the classroom and the Muffin Boy fled the room in embarrassment.
In eighth grade, Miss Muffy, who had begun to go by Miss Muffett, was in the school play. One day, the Muffin Boy pulled me aside to ask me a question.
"I want to give Miss Muffett flowers for her show. Do you know what her favorite flower is?" he asked passionately.
I had made it my mission to know everything about Miss Muffett to better sabotage the couple. Consequently, I knew her favorite flower, daffodils. I also knew what flowers she was allergic to.
"Carnations," I replied with a smile.
The night of the play, the Muffin Boy handed a distracted Miss Muffett her bouquet. Five minutes later a blood curdling scream came from the dressing room.
One of the other girls in the play rushed out and asked, "Who gave Miss Muffett carnations?" The Muffin Boy tentatively raised his hand. "Miss Muffett is allergic to carnations!" With that she stormed back into the dressing room to attend to a slightly swollen Miss Muffett.
* * * * *
This morning when I walked out of my house, I saw the Muffin Man talking to Miss Muffett outside of his father's Bakery. With Miss Muffett seated on a tuffett and the Muffin Man kneeling in front of her, I had a bad feeling in my yolk. As I approached the smiling pair, I strained to hear their speech.
“…Long time now, ever since I met you, actually, Miss Marguerite Muffett. I’ve just never had the courage to tell you before,” The Muffin Man declared.
“I love you more!” I yelled, effectively dissolving their moment. I strutted over to Miss Muffett and kissed her full on the mouth. The Muffin Man politely, but sternly tapped me on the shoulder and I relinquished my hold on the woman.
The Muffin Man opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him, “I’ll fight you for her. Whoever can stand on the top of the castle wall longer wins Miss Muffett.” Being an expert on the Muffin Man as well, I knew that he was terrified of heights. I would win this battle, whisk Miss Muffett away, break her heart forever, and win the war.
We mounted the steps and I could feel the Muffin Man’s fear emanating from every pore of his body. I stepped up to the ledge, turned around carefully and motioned for the Muffin Man to follow. Five minutes and one panic attack later the Muffin Man finally stood next to me on the wall looking down at Miss Muffett, who was sitting on a tuffett eating her curds and whey. He was doing this for her, after all. To impress Miss Muffett, I broke out my tap dancing skills, doing a little dance for her. The Muffin Man did a little jig in response. Not to be outdone, I brought out more advanced moves, my feet moving like lightning, and my arms circling above my head. Suddenly, the stone beneath me slipped, just an inch, but it was enough. I lost my footing and my body tilted, trying to balance itself. My eyes flew open, my arms flailed, and I reached for anything to hold on to. Finding nothing, I fell over the side. Air rushed around me as I fell, This is all the Muffin Man’s fault. With a crack, I hit the ground. My once beautiful shell was now in pieces on the ground, my insides sliding slowly down the sidewalk. If the Muffin Man hadn’t broken my shell when we were kids, I wouldn’t have fallen, and I wouldn’t be sitting here now like tomorrow’s breakfast.
* * * * *
The Muffin Man stood on the edge of the wall in shock. He glanced over to where Miss Muffet stood, her curds and whey splattered all over the ground like Humpty’s insides. She looked up at me and I saw terror in her eyes. I rushed down the stairs and opened my arms to receive a crying Miss Muffett. We sat together as we watched the King’s men try to put Humpty together again without any luck. The sun went down and we headed back to Miss Muffett’s home. We stopped at the door and said our goodbyes.
“I’ll come call on you tomorrow,” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Miss Muffett beamed, “I look forward to it.”